Stare You Down
by prouvaires
Summary: -and out of the thousands of replies, she had to give that one.- MerlinMorgana.


_Et ils tournent et ils dansent_

_Commes les soleils crachés._

- Amsterdam, Jacques Brel

(And they turn and they dance

Like spat-out suns.)

--

She's amused by the squalor. All the countless lives that will grow and wither and disappear here, never more than a faceless body who turned up to work and then got too old and wasted away into death.

Before, it would have shocked her. Before, she would have cast a hand to her mouth and heart and pulled out her bulging purse of gold coins, casting them around in an attempt to ease the suffering.

But then her best friend killed her and she gave up on goodness.

When people she used to know see her again, they stare at her and they ask her what went wrong. She's never understood this question. She's more beautiful than ever, crowned in the leaves and berries of the forest, her dresses more tailored and fitted than ever, extending over her body like a second skin. If they could see her now they'd cast themselves on their knees in astonishment.

She stands out like a sore thumb here. Everything is monochrome – dirt and filth and grey people standing by grey houses on the brown ground as she flashes through on her white horse, red cloak dancing in the wind as her horse's hooves strike the earth in a rhythmic, galloping beat.

She's never been to a port-town before, and if she's being honest she never intends to come to one again. But there's a man here who she has a bone to pick with and she's not about to let such a golden opportunity pass her by.

She dismounts gracefully in the courtyard of the inn, passing the reins of her mare over to the muddy man and tossing him a gold coin lazily. He snatches it out of the air and bites into it briefly, before allowing his face to stretch out into a grin and touching his cap deferentially to her.

She watches him go, and toys with the idea of killing him, just to feel his fear.

"Don't even think about it," a soft voice orders from somewhere to her left, and she whirls to see blue eyes in a pale face staring her down, daring her to release the magic he knows is building inside her.

"And you're going to stop me?" she inquires carelessly, her skirts sweeping the ground behind herself as she heads towards the doorway of the tavern. She knows he'll follow.

"I could, you know," he says when they're safely in the room he's rented. She seats herself gingerly on the edge of the bed, folding her hands into her lap, and gazes up at him curiously. There's no conceit or arrogance in his voice, merely a quiet sort of purpose.

"I'd like to see you try," she tells him confidently, her gaze travelling over her dingy surroundings for a moment before flickering back to his face. "Although I'd hate to deprive _King _Arthur of his precious wizard."

"He's a great king, you know," Merlin tells her determinedly, and she sees so much of the boy she used to know it would make her cry if she hadn't promised she'd never cry over him again. "He's fair and he's brave and he always, _always _does the right thing."

She stands in one smooth movement, noting how he flinches slightly, and wanders over to the cracker mirror above the meagre fireplace, letting her fingers trace through the dust there.

"The right thing always comes at a cost," she states quietly. When he makes a small noise of confusion, she turns and tugs her dress away from her shoulder, exposing to him an angry red mark against her moon-pale skin. His hand raises as though he's going to caress it, but it drops limply back to his side.

"That's from – "

"That's from the spell Morgause had to use to save me when you killed me."

Suddenly he breaks down. She's startled – she thought it would take a little longer to pull him apart.

"I'm so sorry," he groans, falling to his knees. "I've had five years to regret it and not a day goes by when I wish there was something else, anything else, I could have done." He crawls towards her, clutching her skirts in his hands and pressing his face into her waist.

"Please, Morgana," he breathes quietly, and she sees tears sparkling on his face as he raises it to her. "I'll do anything to gain your forgiveness."

She laughs shortly, bitterly.

"No you won't."

"I will. Anything."

She hesitates then. There are a thousand replies she could make that he would refuse, and she knows it. But there's also some – really irritating – part of her that doesn't want him to think any worse of her than he already does. Sure, he tried to kill her, but she's caused the deaths of thousands of innocents and destroyed hundreds of families forever.

So she just says: "make love to me."

And he does.

And it's messy and rough not at all perfect but then that's how _they _are and it wouldn't be right if it wasn't like that.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against her bare skin, and she forgives him, because … just because.

It's never really right if they're at odds with each other. She has grown to hate Camelot and Arthur because they are the past, and Morgana le Fay doesn't like the past. She's a woman of the present and the future and she's not going to stare back over her shoulder in misery, watching the two men she once loved most in the world carve their reputations and a flourishing kingdom out of bare rock as she cries by the side of the road.

The name of a man will go down in history forever for his goodness, but a woman only ever is remembered for how far she strays from the path. History has taught her this. The most famous woman in history is Eve, the original sinner. If you want to make history, you have to go out with a bang.

And, if she does nothing else, she's sure as hell going to do that. Morgana le Fay will never simply _fade away. _She'll go out with a fanfare and fireworks and an explosion that will be heard from the heaven of the Christians to the deepest depths of Avalon. Children will whisper her name as the ultimate opponent, the one who gave the great King Arthur so much grief throughout his reign.

She realises, of course, that it will probably be Guinevere that will earn the most infamy. She's seen Arthur's future, but she resents him so fully for his disinterest when she left that she has no intention of letting him know he'll die because of her. Instead she sends her magic and her fury against him and all the while she hopes that she can keep this _thing _she has with Merlin because without him she's nothing.

They twist beneath the sheets like dancers, their magic binding them together and shining from every pore in their writhing bodies until they burn with light like spat-out suns.

After, his breath tickles her ear as he rolls over in exhaustion, pulling her with him and letting her rest on his chest. She lays her head over his heart tiredly, linking her fingers intimately with his as they recover this breath.

"Be better," he says quietly, and it sort of sounds like he's pleading.

"I'll try," she says. She doesn't promise, because she doesn't make promises any more, but she means it.

"I know," he concedes, and presses his lips tenderly to her forehead. "I'll miss you."

"You know where to find me," she tells him, breaking the contact between them and beginning to pull her dress back on. "Just like always."

He waits until she's disappeared out of the door before he allows his head to fall back on the moth-eaten pillow, the breath expelled from his chest in one huge sigh.

"I love you," he murmurs into the empty air, and then he reaches for his clothes, and with a muttered spell he's vanishing into nothingness and coalescing again at Arthur's court.

"Did you find her?" the young king asks in excitement, bounding over. Merlin, with a sigh, lets his head hang.

"Yes, I did," he replies slowly, his hands shaking somewhat as he strains to hold onto every single second of the stolen minutes he'd received from her. "She's fine. Happy. She said she'd try to be a better person."

Arthur huffs in frustration. "You know I'd be happier if she was dead, Merlin. Her promises never mean anything."

Arthur is taken aback as the room darkens around him, and the knights at the door tremble as Merlin's magic becomes a very real presence in the room, pressing ominously at the windows as the magician glares at Arthur.

"You've forgotten everything about how she used to be. She was corrupted by Morgause and your father's hatred and now your resentment and you give her no chance to redeem herself. She was a better person once, and I swear she can be so again. Wish her dead one more time, Arthur Pendragon, and I will make sure you regret it."

Arthur, astonished by Merlin's reaction, doesn't hear the tears in his wizard's voice or see his eyes swim and betray him. Without a word, Merlin turns on his heel and exits the hall hurriedly, leaving Arthur bewildered because Merlin has _never_ spoken to him like that.

But then there's a message and one of his sons toddles into the room carrying a toy pony, and he forgets the episode almost instantly as he lifts young Richard easily into his arms and turns towards the knight carrying the letter.

But Merlin remembers, and always will.

And Morgana remembers. She may hate the past, but she loves Merlin. She'll never admit it to anyone, least of all herself, but she does. And you can't just forget love. Love like this neither fades nor disappears with a bang. It just is, and you have to learn to deal with it.

--

**A/N: **So a nice dark, angsty, and generally depressing Merlin/Morgana fic. I've had a bad two days in regards to friends and relationships and I'm in the mood for someone else to suffer. I'm sorry it had to be these two, but … meh. They're kind of easy to write angstily. (Yes, I'm aware that probably isn't a word!)


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